


The Ticking Clock

by neb



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neb/pseuds/neb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick refuses to accept his reality. And he will do everything within his power to either change it, or completely deny its existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He watches the clock tick at his bedside, waiting for the alarm to go off. It has twelve minutes left until it’s shrill chime is supposed to wake him up, but he knows as soon as he legitimately tries, he’ll fall asleep two minutes before, and subsequently he’ll be jerked awake into a state of feeling more tired than he started.

Dick stopped counting the days since _then_  a while back. It just seemed too torturous anyway, especially given his inquiries with the Talia Al Ghul were getting no where. No matter where he worked on it, who he worked with, or what his motivation was, he could feel Bruce’s glaring disapproval breathing down the back of his neck. Bruce doesn’t understand Dick’s need to walk down that path, to go further. To toy with forces he shouldn’t be toying with to get what he wanted. ‘Bruce should be doing this his damn self,’ the man thinks savagely, fists curled in the haphazardly splayed sheets.

The alarm clock shrieks and breaks the morning’s silence. A tan hand slams down on it so the small silver bells bend and the hammer caught between the two. The air is still ringing even if there is no sound. Or maybe it’s just the bells in his head.

**Don’t be so pathetic, Grayson. You haven’t shaved in a week. You look like homeless scum.**

The voice pulls him up from the soft embrace of the covers as a little scrunched face peers over the end of his bed. Sharp, almond eyes are narrowed in distain, and his childish mouth is twisted in disgust. ‘Damian.’ Dick breathes. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

**Ugh.**  Eyes roll at the statement as the boy stands up and stretches. **You’re worse than Drake. At least he’s productive when he mopes**

Dutifully, Dick drags himself up. Zombie-like, he pads to the bathroom and inspects the cheap shaving set he got from the 7-11 on the corner; a razor blade and a sachet of shaving cream, all neatly tied up in a plastic bag. He rips the bag open and spreads the cool foam across his chin. The boy behind him folds his arms and stands in the door way.

**You could be quicker about it. You’ve always been vain, Grayson, but you can’t date your own reflection**

He can feel the annoyance radiating off of Damian, even if his tone wasn’t telltale; Damian’s expression is crystal clear in the mirror’s reflection, but Dick can’t help staring at his own expression. He’s half in disbelief that the sallow, grey face looking back at him is his own. Black bags hang heavily under his eyes; his dark hair is limp, greasy . The scarred, badly patched up skin from the last few nights of being ‘Batman’ an open wound across the side of his neck, but he refuses to speak to any of the others about it. He doesn’t want medical treatment. Or pity. It’s then Dick notices he’s holding the razor aloft, suspended useless in space. The face behind him warps in raging frustration.

**Hurry up! If we’re late because of you, I’m going to beat you into the ground!**

‘Alright, alright, I’m going.’ And his hands move out of muscle memory. Shaving in long, uninterrupted strokes as Damian’s foot taps against the tiles floor, his green boots’ laces undone for comfort.

Shaved and face washed (if he showers, it’ll take longer), Dick runs a comb halfheartedly through his hair. Presently he genuinely doesn’t care what anyone thinks of his appearance. He used to care, before, but it has become one of those needless things. Who the hell is he trying to impress? He shrugs on a suit mechanically, finds a vaguely clean shirt and a tie that will hide it’s dishevelled state.

**Grayson! Hurry UP!**

He obliges silently, shoving on shoes and grabbing the keys to the safe house before he slams the door behind him. Damian’s stomping boots leading the way. He ignores the black limo waiting for him outside. It has been sitting there for a good half an hour, and he knows who is seated within it. it’s not hard to guess, given what day it is. He doest pay any attention to the drivers seat, nor the rolled down window so as to avoid Alfred’s crumpled face and Bruce’s supposed incapacity for feeling. The walk will do him good anyway.

It only takes him about twenty minutes but Damian is fuming by the time they get there.

**I told you not to be LATE.**

It takes Dick a few moments to walk onto the grass. The sick, twisted feeling in his gut grows, and multiplies until he finds he finds himself clutching his stomach, braced against a tree. Of all the places he had imagined after a year of Damian’s pestering, this is the last place he had wanted. This is the last place ANY of them had wanted. He’s too young. He’s too YOUNG for this crap!

Jason was too young too. But somehow with Damian it’s worse. They weren’t the same age. They weren’t just friends. Partners. Allies. Living and working under the same roof day in, day out. With all of the fights and ups and downs. Regardless of what all of the birth certificates say, Damian was his—.

Was.

He looks back to where the brightly clad echo had stood, complaining, mere seconds ago, and his blue eyes flick back to the mahogany coffin. Completely unadorned. There are a few white roses littering the top, and a small group crowded around it. No. He’s not going to watch. He’s not even going to attending this piece of SHIT ceremony. Bruce can go fuck himself. He’s not accepting this! 

Dick turns on his heel and walks away from the Gotham Cemetary. Jason came back with no help at all. Dick’s determined. He’ll find Damian. He’ll find him and he’ll drag him back from hell himself.


	2. Hatching the Plan

The door swings shut behind him, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And in the second, he lets it all overwhelm him. Wash over his shaking skin in pants, and tears, and painful palpitations that break his heart through his chest. The wall doesn’t feel solid enough behind him as he slides down, the groans breaking between his lips, agonized sounds as the feeling of Damian’s loss hits him again, and again, and again, like an oncoming truck, slicing into his ribcage. He is curled against a corner, tearing at his hair and trying to force air into his lungs, but its not coming.

Just one moment. One moment, when it all crushes him through the floor, into a tiny pile of nothing, wishing to be swallowed by the black hole that is currently burying his boy’s body. Dick knows after this second he can’t be overwhelmed anymore. He knows after this, he has to go and break into the graveyard. Has to dig him up. Has to look Damian in the face, his eyes faux-peacefully closed, and drag him from his resting place.

Because Dick knows he’s just too selfish to let him die in peace.

Not that it was peaceful.

His moment’s up, and he knows it. The man straightens as best he can, and wades through the wall of crap littering his apartment’s floor. He’s had no desire to clean any of it up, and what good would it do him anyway? He needs a plan. A solid plan.

**Now you’re sounding like Drake again. Well it’s either that, or all guns ablazing. Neither sound like a promising option.**

“Can’t you just leave me to it? I’m trying to think of a way to drag you back!” He snaps, whirling on the small, technicoloured image now rested on his kitchen countertop, bright green boots tied up to the knees, and swinging aimlessly. He jumps down, and folds small arms over his chest.

**No. I can’t. You’re dragging –me- back.**

A huff of angry air, and Dick shoves all of the empty pot-noodle cartons and paper coffee cups off his kitchen table, the small, round, wooden adornment to his otherwise slovenly living space. “How the hell am I suppose to come up with a plan?” He mutters to himself.

 **Stopping talking to thin air and occasionally thinking can help. Or so I’m told.**  Comes the sardonic drawl as the translucent image checks his fingernails like a secretary popping neon pink bubblegum. **Now lets think.** He mock strokes his chin between two fingers, Dick almost convinced he can hear the squeak of Robin’s leather gloves against his chin. **Who has access to a pit of radioactive looking lava that, according to Todd, can raise beings from the dead—**

 “I am not going to shove you back into the Lazarus Pit so that Ra’s can have a field day with your body!” he shouts, whirling on the 2D image of his Robin with crazed anger blazing in both cerulean eyes.

 **I didn’t say it was mandatory for Grandfather to be present.** Flat, venom dripping from the words. Dick watches the roll of his eyes and feels the old fury at Damian’s smart mouth flair in the back of his mind. After a funeral, lacking control, he snarls “Damian! It doesn’t WORK like that. Look how Jason turned out!”

 **Ah!** The ethereal image clicks his fingers knowingly **So you do think he is defective!**

“  That’s not what – “

 **Oh Grayson, now if only you could admit the shortcomings of my father and your so called ‘brother’, then you would have a full set of defunct-** It’s in his hand, in his grip, he throws it, strong fingers nearly crushing the handle entirely.

“Shut UP!”

The mug Tim bought him for his birthday goes flying through Damian’s forehead and shatters into a million pieces against the microwave.

**That was mature.**

The silence that follows is only disturbed by the ever-present click of the red second hand of a wall clock.

**Drake is going to think you did that because you didn’t like it.**

Silence once more. The shadow hesitates. Dick’s hands press into his eyes so hard he half expects them to pop and for liquid to stream out of his skull. At least then he could stop seeing the nightmare he’s living.

**Grayson. I’m not your imagination.**

“…”

**I wouldn’t bother sticking around if there wasn’t reason to.**

There are still no words, but Dick is moving. He ignores the crunch of ceramic beneath his boot, still muddy from the grass in the graveyard. He grabs his jacket, and his bike keys. “If you’re staying here, you might as well help. “ He mutters, well aware that Damian can hear him. The figure appears in front of him as he reaches into the fridge, takes a long swig of milk from the carton, and nearly laughs inanely at the fact the ghost of his boy is still disgusted by the idea of his ‘dirtiest of habits’.

**Help how?**

“Where am I going to find your mother?”

**I thought we had already established that the Lazarus was a foolish plan. I don’t want to have the level of homicidal insanity that Todd does!**

“I think you’re a bit far gone for that, Little D. “ The small, green fists clench in response to his bittersweet nickname. He isnt’ going to stop him. Damian needs to find a way back, that much he knows. He isn’t going to spend much time seeking the afterlife given, even in his present state, he still vehemently believes there is no such thing. Grayson shoves on his leather jacket and zips it up, picks up his keys and barges out the door.

 **-Tt-. Ever the idiot.** His shadow follows behind him, barely needing to walk to keep up with his former mentor.

“And just who is trying to bring back who?” He murmurs, so as to not attract attention. The hairs on the back of his neck are still standing up, meaning either Bruce, or Tim is ‘keeping an eye’ on him. He ignores the pair of them, wherever they may be, and continues on. To the outside onlooker, he looks as though he is making his way to a more comforting location, less soaked in memories of his and Damian’s partnership.

 **That makes you more of one, does it not?** Dick shakes his head sharply, and his boy’s eyes narrow beside him. **Where are we even going? I’m fairly certain Arabia involves an airplane, and the airport is in the opposite direction.**

Dick continues walking fast, covering three blocks in as many minutes. He is halfway into accelerating to a jog when he reaches a coffee shop. A duck inside, three bucks, and two minutes later, and he has the necessary caffeine. Damian has seen this behavior before this determination. It isn’t something his father, or any of the other failed Robins could provide. This is Grayson’s fierce determination when he is resolute.

Which means he has a plan.

 

 


End file.
